Three granite chunks spun through the air, circling Tim’s shoulders in a tight ring. He let his breathing slow, anchoring his focus on their momentum. He fed a steady stream of mana into [Speed Up], and the rocks blurred into a gray ring, whining as they raced around the practice room with enough force to carve through men like butter.
A year ago, before coming to the Tower, this would have been beyond him. Now he exhaled and overlaid his second layer of magic.
Gray vapor seeped from his boots, rolling across the scorched flagstones—a lingering scar from the demonic invasion that had nearly broken the Tower and that the Archmages had decided to leave as a lesson that even here, they were not safe. The mist filled the room, carrying [Mental Prison] with it and layered with [Slow] and [Fear].
Tim held the layered spells for three full minutes as sweat stung his eyes. It was twenty seconds longer than he’d managed last week, but he wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.
His unruly brown hair plastered to his forehead. He severed the mana flow, letting the rocks clatter to the floor and the mist evaporate into the ventilation shafts.
He wiped his brow with the hem of his tunic and checked his status.
Timothy Poules
LEVEL
MANA
STR
DEX
CON
INT
WIS
CHA
Status Mage/Human
61
160
65
72
85
141
122
48
With a sigh, he dismissed the window. The numbers were good, better than he could have expected. His progress was undeniable. But it felt hollow against the monsters that had poured through the Tower’s breaches, when compared to what some of his friends had achieved.
A soft knock rapped at the door, and Claudius slipped inside, closing it quickly behind him. His mentor seemed even older than when Tim had last seen him before joining the Tower, and he knew it was not just age catching up.
He wouldn’t have made the trip from Oakenhallow in such secrecy if he had just wanted to check on me.
Claudius adjusted the collar of his robes, seemingly indecisive. It was not something he would have noticed before, but Tim had grown in more than mere power.
Living among the greatest talents of the West had forced him to read people like books, and while some, like Nick, were still beyond him, he knew Claudius well enough to see he was very nervous.
“You push yourself hard, my boy,” the old man said, his voice a dry rasp.
“The demons won't wait for me to catch my breath the next time they come,” Tim replied, even if that was a misdirection. He still had nightmares about facing the fiends, but that wasn’t the only reason he was training so hard. He walked to the wooden bench and picked up his waterskin. “You must have important news from Oakenhallow if you made the trip yourself.”
When he’d received the message about his arrival, Tim had been pleased. He was pretty sure he was a match for Claudius now, perhaps even superior in raw power, and would have loved to show his success to the man who’d introduced him to magic. But while it was possible for any mage who’d once studied in the Tower to return at any moment, and indeed many had done so after news of the Incursion spread, he’d quickly realized that wouldn’t be enough to explain such a sudden visit.
Claudius sighed and studied him for a long moment. Eventually, whatever indecision he felt was washed away by what he saw. “It does me no pleasure to bring this to your attention, but with your father at war, you needed to be informed. Lady Chandra has tightened the noose. Old Miller spoke out at the tavern three days ago, complaining about the increased taxes. By morning, he was at the manor, pledging his undying loyalty to her. Worse, the entire town guard has been replaced by her sycophants, and now the walls are virtually unmanned, save for the few necessary to check on traders.”
Tim gripped the waterskin. The leather creaked under his fingers. The memory of Chandra arriving at the estate—barely two weeks after his mother’s sudden death—burned in his chest. His father might have been blind to it, or perhaps he’d simply willfully ignored her actions, constantly away on hunting trips or border skirmishes. But to him, Chandra’s power was terrifying, and she seemed to have grown bolder in Armand’s absence.
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“I need to go back, then,” Tim said. It wasn’t an easy decision, and if it had been at all possible, he would have liked to delay his return for another year so he might grow even further. But if Claudius felt the need to come in such secrecy, he couldn’t wait any longer.
By then, she’ll have the entire town dancing to her tune.
“You will be walking into a trap,” Claudius warned. “Her grip on the town is absolute. She will turn your own household against you. And your father... it pains me to say this, but he might take her side. If you try to dislodge her, you will be branded a traitor to your own blood.”
Tim set the waterskin down. He looked at his hands. They were calloused, scarred by spell-burns and endless drills under Master Battera. He was no longer the frightened boy who stammered before noble girls.
“House Poules is sworn to the Crowleys,” Tim muttered, mostly to himself. “I could send word to Nick. He could bring his family’s weight to bear on her.”
He considered it. A Crowley banner outside Oakenhallow would force Chandra to yield. But Nick had his own battles, battles he knew very little about, except that they were far more important than the woes of a knightly house.
More importantly, relying on an outside force would only prove Chandra right, that Tim was weak, a boy in need of a savior. Even if he managed to convince his liege lords to help, he’d be reliant on them for everything, and the moment his father returned, she’d see her power restored.
“No,” Tim said, his voice hardening. “This is my family. My lands. I will handle her myself.”
Claudius watched him for a long moment, the deep wrinkles around his eyes softening. “At times like these, you sound most like your mother, my Lord. If you are set on this, you should do your best to prepare. I shall try to slow her as much as possible, and when the time comes, I will stand by your side.”
The old mage slipped out the door, leaving Tim alone in the quiet practice room.
Tim raised his hand. A chunk of granite rose from the floor, hovering above his palm. He crushed it to dust with a flex of his will.
In a week, he’d leave, but before then, he had a few more levels to grind through.
A silver teaspoon rattled against the porcelain saucer, and Rose cursed under her breath, trying to loosen her grip. Her hands were made for a sword hilt, calloused and thick, and the delicate teacup felt out of place between her fingers.
Arthur sat across the small, sunlit breakfast table, slicing his sausage with far more poise than she could manage. He wore a simple linen shirt, looking every bit the retired gentleman farmer, though the tension in his broad shoulders betrayed him.
“One would think that with your Dexterity stat, you’d have an easier time handling delicate equipment,” he observed quietly.
“One would think wrong. Give me a blade, and I’ll show you grace, but all this refinement is beyond me,” Rose shot back. She set the cup down, abandoning the pretense of noble etiquette, and crossed her arms, leaning back in her wooden chair.
Arthur chewed, swallowed, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I will be patrolling the Green Ocean until dusk. A pack of wolves has been sniffing around the logging fields, and the guards have yet to find them. Stay inside the ward line today, and be sure to practice your forms away from the road.”
“I’ve practiced the forms a thousand times,” Rose said, her frustration finally boiling over. “I know them backward. I want to go with you and hit something that hits back.”
Arthur’s gray eyes fixed on her. The warmth left his gaze, replaced by a hard stare she knew meant he couldn’t be moved.
“We have discussed this, Rose.” He kept his voice low, but there was a tremor of fear that felt wholly incongruent with his power. “If someone recognizes your skills, or, gods forbid, your Class, the King’s Hounds will descend on Floria before the week is out. You are to stay hidden, and that is final.”
Rose dropped her gaze to the table. The street urchin in her wanted to flip the table and run. The bastard royal blood in her veins wanted to demand an explanation she knew Arthur couldn't give. She knew the truth, even if they never said it out loud. Her Class was restricted to the Royal Family. Possessing it as an unacknowledged bastard was a death sentence at best.
“Yes, Grandfather,” she muttered.
Arthur sighed, the hardness leaving his face. He reached across the table and squeezed her shoulder. “You are a good kid, Rose. One day you will thank me for this.”
He stood, strapped his sword to his back, and walked out the front door.
Rose wallowed for a few minutes. She cleared the dishes, grabbed her sword from the mantle, and slipped out of the house, walking through the wardline without hesitation.
She jogged through the dense treeline bordering the agricultural fields until, minutes later, she emerged into a secluded clearing surrounded by towering pines.
Devon and Sonya were already waiting. They weren’t exactly the kind of people she would have expected to befriend, but she’d met the couple several times during her secret trips into town. After the awkward first meeting, they’d struck up an odd friendship.
Devon stretched his shoulders, his blade resting on the grass. He wore a simple tunic, but the lethal grace with which he moved was enough to show the skill he’d developed training under the Grandmaster of the Sword. Sonya sat on a nearby stump, a book open on her lap, and seemed to be taking notes.
Knowing her, she was likely still trying to learn everything there was to know about Floria, from its trade to its history.
She will be its Lady one day. It’s only right.
That a Maid could rise so far had caused more than a few murmurs, but the people of Floria trusted the Crowleys too much to make it a real problem.
Sometimes I wish it were me. But such thinking brings nothing but pain. I have my own path to walk.
“You’re late,” Devon said, picking up his sword.
“The old man was talking too much,” Rose replied. She tossed her scabbard into the bushes and settled into a low, wide stance.
Devon didn't offer a warning. He lunged, crossing the clearing in a fraction of a second. His blade aimed a sharp thrust at her collarbone.
Rose met the strike with a wild grin. She swung her sword up, batting Devon’s aside with a resounding clang. He spun, using the momentum to deliver a horizontal slash at her ribs.
Rose lowered her center of gravity and activated [Ruler’s Mantle].
A surge of power rippled through her muscles. Faint golden sparks crackled across her knuckles, climbing the blade. She parried Devon’s slash, and the impact sent a shockwave through the clearing, kicking up a ring of dirt and pine needles.
Devon grunted, sliding backward in the dirt. His arms trembled slightly from the sheer concussive force of her block, which was saying something, given that she’d seen him cut a boar monster in half after halting its charge.
“That is absurd,” Devon breathed, adjusting his grip, though he didn’t seem discouraged. “You hit like a siege ram.”
“I eat all my vegetables,” Rose said, grinning. She pushed forward, shifting into the offensive.
She unleashed a flurry of sweeping strikes, forcing Devon onto the defensive. He parried, deflected, and dodged, showing far greater skill than she, but Rose was relentless. Every time their blades crossed, gold flared, bolstering her strength and sending painful jolts up Devon’s forearms.
Silver light flared around his sword, and she was finally pushed back, skidding across the clearing.
Yet she couldn’t help laughing. “Finally! I’ve been trying to force you to use your skills for days!”
Her opponent didn’t seem to find it funny and was quick to rush at her. He slipped under her swing and brought his pommel toward her temple.
Rose let her instincts take over. She dropped her sword, closed the gap in his defense, seized Devon’s wrist with her gold-wreathed hand, moved her hips to gain leverage, and threw him over her shoulder.
Of course, he had little trouble flipping in the air and righting himself as he came down, but his breathing was ever so slightly labored, and she knew she could do more.
I could be out there, making a name for myself so great that even the King couldn’t touch me.
It was just a dream, but in time she’d see it realized.
For now, she would focus on refining herself as much as possible here, so that when she chose to leave, even her grandfather wouldn't be able to deny her.
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